


Your Mother

by platosil



Category: God of War
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Puberty, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-09 02:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platosil/pseuds/platosil
Summary: You can't teach him everything, you know.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mother?”

She hums softly, looking over at him through the moving grass. They’re picking herbs in her garden, fragrant and sprawling, his fingers are dirty and sore from all the roots he’s pulled today. He keeps his face turned down because he doesn’t know how to follow it up.

“Atreus?” she asks. “What is it?”

He scowls down at his hands. He doesn’t know how to ask. He never gets many answers, anyway. She always tells him he’s much too young to understand, even though he’s seen ten winters. He’s old enough.

His mother moves closer. Her fingers touch his shoulder, cup around his upper arm. She won’t use her words again, but it’s clear she expects him to speak.

“Does Father…” 

Atreus stops. Mother squeezes his arm. He looks up at her, his brows creased.

“Does Father hurt you?” 

She smiles. “Hurt me?” 

He nods, hesitantly. “At night. When he’s here and— and sometimes I wake up and you’re making noise, and it looks like he’s holding you down, but I don’t know what to do.”

His mother chuckles, and she draws him into her arms. He lays his head on her breast as she strokes his neck, and he feels very stupid for bringing it up for some reason. He doesn’t understand and he doesn’t have anyone else to ask but her. It’s not like he can ask Father. He can barely form a sentence around the man at the best of times. He’s scary and he doesn’t smile.

“Oh,” she murmurs, her mouth pressed against his hair. She kisses his brow. “No, he does not hurt me.”

“Then why do you make those sounds?” He shakes his head. “I hate it.” 

_I hate him,_ he thinks. He doesn’t dare say it, because he knows it hurts her. He sees her face when Father leaves, after all. 

Mother hums, her hands soothing him. He almost wants to close his eyes and rest. His illness always seems to act up with Father home, even if he tries not to show it. It’s easier to relax when he leaves again, and it’s just him and Mother.

“It is an act of love, Atreus,” she says. “You will understand when you’re older.”

Atreus frowns. He draws his head back to look up at her, perplexed. “But I love you more than he does and we don’t do that.”

Her brows draw up towards her hairline and she laughs, the sound echoing through the valley. Atreus feels small and stupid, looks away once more. She starts to stand, taking him with her in her arms, holding him on her hip as she did when he was much younger. It makes him feel childish but he still rests his head on her shoulder as she sways.

“And I love you, my son.”

She doesn’t love him enough to do _that thing_ with him. Whatever that thing is.

* * *

He wakes up when it’s still dark outside sweating through his furs even though it’s been colder than it has in years. 

Atreus sits up, gasping. He runs his hand over his face, and he’s sweating, like he’s just fought a battle he didn’t win. He feels disoriented, but not in the same way he feels after those strange dreams. Gods and monsters. It doesn’t feel like that.

His body is tingling all over, slick with perspiration that seems to pool between his legs. It hurts down there. He reaches downward under the furs, and it doesn’t feel like sweat or like he pissed himself, even. It used to happen when he was sickly, but it hasn’t happened in years.

He pulls his hand up to his face, the fluid tacky between his finger tips. He sniffs it. It’s not blood, but he doesn’t know what it is. Atreus scowls. He sticks his tongue out to taste it. It’s salty. 

Panic ripples through him. He can’t be sick again. He can’t be.

Glancing over to the bed next to him, his father is still asleep, his chest rising and falling evenly. His eyes wander to where Mimir is propped on the shelf, his eyes closed. They don’t open as much anymore, not since they returned from the journey. 

Atreus slides his foot out of bed onto the floor, and begins the slow creep towards the water basin. His father wakes at the slightest noise, but his training has imbued him with the gift of silence.

He wipes himself down with a wet rag beneath his undergarments, as quickly as he can muster. It’s frigid and he grits his teeth the entire time, grateful when he can pull his breeches back up. There’s still wetness on the crotch, and it’s uncomfortable. Shame ripples through him. Father mustn’t find out. 

He starts back to his bed, on his tiptoes, and slides back under the furs when the wood creaks.

“Atreus.”

He cringes. “Yes, sir?”

Father turns onto his side to look at him, and Atreus has no choice but to guiltily return his look. His father’s eyes look golden in the night, concerned where they never used to be. 

“What is it?” His father’s voice is rough with slumber. He raises himself on his elbow. “Another nightmare?” 

“Yes,” he says. It doesn’t feel the same as a nightmare, but he’s still afraid.

Father hums, a low rumble in his chest. It’s somewhat calming. His big hand reaches for his arm, squeezes his bicep. His father never used to touch him before their journey to the mountain, and he used to crave it and loathe it in equal parts when he did. Now, it’s soothing.

“Could you tell me a story?” he asks. “To help me sleep.”

“You can sleep without one.”

“Father,” he says. It sounds more urgent than he means it to. “Please.”

He sees the glint of gold at the wall where Mimir has opened an eye. Father must notice it too, because he sighs. “All right.”

Father reaches over and presses on his chest until Atreus lowers down into the furs, on his back. He can’t see his father now, but he focuses on his voice as he starts on a tale from his homeland. He’s gotten better at telling stories, and Atreus can almost picture it. The warmth, the sand. He knows Father is leaving details out, or even making it all up, but he can fill them in with his mind. He wonders if father was small like him when he was a boy.

In the days that follow, it happens again, every night. He wakes up in a sweat with an ache between his legs. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. Not for the first time, nor the last, he wishes desperately that his mother were here.

* * *

Many nights when it was just the two of them, Atreus would slip into his mother’s bed. She’d allow it when he was younger, or when he was feeling ill, but as he grew more often than not she turned him away. Especially after he’d asked that question, that day in the garden. 

He spent most of his life by her side. He knows his mother better than he knows himself. And he had known that something changed when she started lifting him out of his bed at night, pulling him into hers. His head on her chest, her hands soft over his back, her strained breath. His eyes would fill with tears for reasons he wasn’t ready to face. Not then.

And now he spends his time with Father. Not at his heels the way he used to with Mother, but ahead of him. Beside him. They hunt together in the daytime, when the snowfall is light. 

They don’t stick to the garden, the way he used to with Mother. Midgard is at his fingertips. Or what remains of it. As the days pass, it grows colder, and sometimes he can catch the worry on Father’s face when he thinks Atreus is not looking. He’s getting better at reading him, he thinks. Or maybe Father trusts him enough to reveal himself.

“Aye, Brother,” says Mimir, hanging at his father’s belt. “Do you sense it?”

“Sense what?” Father says. 

He’s busy skinning a deer, his hands bloody. Atreus has started to outgrow his leathers.

The wind blows. Atreus sees his breath make shapes in the air. 

“Storm coming in,” Mimir says.

Father looks up at the sky. His brows knit. “It would appear so.”

He finishes with the deer. Atreus shoulders his bow, steps back as Father stands. Father looks down at him, and nods. 

“Then we will return home.”

Air whistles through the wood of the cabin. The fire crackles in the pit as Father throws another log on, and Atreus sits as close as possible with his furs draped around his shoulders to catch the warmth. He holds Mimir on his lap and rubs oil into the base of his horns because they get a bit sore from being roped to Father’s belt when they venture out.

They eat venison and some kind of root vegetable Atreus had foraged. He does most of the cooking. Father isn’t very good at it. He seems to like Atreus’ though, licks the blood off his fingers when he’s finished.

“I hate this,” Atreus whines. “It’s cold and miserable, and I hate having to sit inside. I want to train.”

Mostly he doesn’t like the quiet. The quiet leaves space to get lost in thought. In the silences he thinks of Mother and the ache of her absence becomes too much to bear. 

Father puts his bowl to the side, and stands. “Get up.” 

There’s enough space for him to throw punches. He’s much better at this now. He gets frustrated when Father bests him, which happens more often than not, but he lands a few hits too. Father looks pleased, and Atreus beams. 

“Good.” Father holds his fists in both of his hands. He squeezes until it almost hurts, then lets go. “Again.”

They spar until he’s too exhausted to think anymore. It occurs to him that Father must’ve recognized how badly he needed this. He feels the sharp edges of his pride, but somewhere else deeper than that, he’s grateful.

They settle into bed. The wind waits at the door. Mimir goes quiet on his shelf. 

The tears come, then. He can’t help it. It’s getting easier with every day that passes, but then he feels guilty that he’s forgetting her, somehow. He would give anything just to see her again. He still has so many questions.

He tries to keep it quiet. He doesn’t want Father to hear him. He doesn’t want Father to know that despite all of his training, despite their journey, that he is still so weak. So childish. He puts his fist in his mouth to try to stifle the sobs, his eyes wet with tears, his nose running. He just misses her so much. 

“Boy.”

Atreus holds his breath. He tries to hold it in. He’s a man now. He shouldn’t cry like this.

“Atreus.”

He turns his face away when his father comes to stand beside his bed. He doesn’t want to be seen. He resists when Father tries to pull his hands away where they cover his face, but the tension goes out of him when his father’s thumb wipes his tears away. 

“I miss her,” Atreus says. His vision is blurred with tears. He can’t make out Father’s face. “I just miss her so much.”

He doesn’t expect it when Father pulls him into his arms. Without his armor, he can feel Father’s skin, hot to the touch and weathered. He puts his head to his father’s chest. His heartbeat as loud and inescapable as the sound of a world, decimated. The wind howls in winter at midnight.

* * *

Atreus wakes up in his father’s bed, under his arm. He blinks sluggishly, his awareness gathering. He had been inconsolable. Father must’ve taken pity on him.

He begins to move, trying not to wake him. A bit of shifting, and he realizes the wetness between his legs is back. The ache. He panics. 

“Cease,” comes Father’s voice. He holds him down to the bed. His arm is very heavy.

Atreus struggles. Father grunts, pulling him back towards him. He tries to twist, but only manages to get his front side pressed against his father, until they’re chest to chest. He goes still, because Father must feel it through his clothing, now. His face goes hot.

He stares at his father’s face, watches his eyes open. He’s alert as ever, looking at him. 

“Ah,” Father says. 

“I’m not sick again,” Atreus starts. “I promise, I’m not—”

“No,” Father says. He props himself up on his elbow, looking down at him. He chuckles. “You are not sick.” 

He frowns. “I’m not?” 

Father seems uncomfortable. His expression draws together in confusion. “Did your mother never speak of this?” 

“Of what?” Atreus’s voice cracks. He does not want to speak of this.

“The change,” Father says, his voice stilted.

Atreus pauses.

“...Into an animal?”

Father sighs. Deeply.

A stilted explanation ensues. When Father lacks the words, he wakes Mimir, holds him at eye level for a much more thorough explanation. When it’s mercifully over, Atreus frowns.

“I already know what sex is. I know how I was made. I have books, and Mother told me a little,” he says. He squirms uncomfortably, because he hasn’t been able to get up to clean himself, and it would be ill timed, now. He looks down at himself, shifting. “But she didn’t didn’t say anything about _that.”_

Father vaguely grunts. Atreus frowns. After everything Father has taught him, it’s strange that this topic would render him more silent than usual.

“If you have more questions, you may ask the head.”

“Don’t you think it better for a boy to learn from his Father?” Mimir asks.

Father gives him a look. Then, he sighs, looks back at Atreus. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “If you have questions you may ask either myself, or the head.”

“Okay,” Atreus says. He wants this conversation to be over.

Father pats his shoulder. He does feel a little better. Still uncomfortable. He shifts again, and Father must notice. 

“Can I—”

“Go.”

Atreus slips out of Father’s bed. He washes quickly, aware of his father’s ever present gaze, and slips back to bed. His own bed, this time.

* * *

They leave the garden to hunt when the sky clears. The snow on the mountains has grown deep. Father doesn’t say anything, but Atreus knows it’s getting worse out here.

It feels routine, now. They scour the surface, they fight draugr. It had seemed so difficult, before. Father lets him deal with most of them now, and he feels alive in the air, his bowstring singing in that sweet moment before he lets the arrow fly. 

Brok and Sindri welcome them with open hands. Palms filled with hacksilver, they speak about the weather, they bicker. They ask for favours. Father seems annoyed, but it’s nice to see friendly faces. Nice to have a goal in mind.

The favour takes them deep into ruin. Some old temple, mostly deserted. They take care of an ogre that’s taken up residence. Not a bad day.

Atreus wanders. There’s what looks like a camp with a fire still burning under an alcove. There’s nobody there. He hasn’t seen a Reaver for a long time, not since the first time he killed. He wonders if they’re all dead— if there are any humans left on Midgard. Not that he would know.

He glances back but Father is occupied with emptying the coffers of the dead. He won’t go far. He creeps further into the alcove.

There are bodies. Some are frozen over, some smell ripe and rancid with decay. His nose wrinkles. They seem to be stacked up, like they’re hiding something. He nudges one with his toe. He doesn’t expect it to nudge back.

He starts, going for his bow, but the figure leaps at him before he can get to it. Atreus grunts as his back hits the stone floor, adrenaline rushing, and he gets his arms up to block. He knows strength isn’t his advantage, but he’s small and quick, twisting away as a strike lands directly next to his head. 

“Get off!” he yells, reaching for his knife. He can make out a face, it’s just a man, but he’s a god and he jams the knife into the man’s gut and sends sparks through the blade into his flesh.

It smells like burnt meat. Atreus watches the man convulse, blood coming out of his mouth to land on his face. He slumps over on top of him, and Atreus lays still, panting. He starts to pull himself out from under, shoving the man off of him onto the stone.

“Atreus!” 

He starts to his feet. He stands still. His father comes to him.

“He must’ve escaped the ogre,” he says. “He was hiding behind a pile of bodies.”

His father’s hand is strong on his arm, nearly dragging him off the ground. “You don’t leave my sight.”

Atreus frowns. He tries to pull his arm free, but Father’s grip is too tight. “I didn’t—”

“It’s not a request.”

Father lets him go. Mimir tsks. “Brother, don’t you think you’re being a wee bit harsh? You’ve seen to it that the lad can take care of himself. Y’ought to let him venture off on his own now and then.”

“I did not ask for your input, head.” 

Mimir looks at Atreus. Atreus shrugs. 

Father crouches before him. Gets on his level. He’s looking at him with intense scrutiny, and it used to make him nervous, but perhaps he feels more bold. 

“I wasn’t afraid.” He licks his lips. He tastes blood. “I didn’t lose control, I promise.” 

Father nods. He reaches for his face, and Atreus is used to this. He likes this, his father’s massive hand cupping his cheek. It’s like he can feel every little place where they’re touching, hyper focused.

“Good.”

His fingers wipe away the blood. Atreus tries not to chase it with his tongue. Father holds his gaze until he seems satisfied, rising to his full height, towering above him. 

Father puts his hand on his shoulder, nudges him forward. He stays in Father’s eyeline.

* * *

Mother sends him out to the garden. She never leaves him alone. It’s how he knows. He _knows._ She tells him not to come back until sundown, and he doesn’t make it that long. When he finds her, she’s long gone.

He cries. He lays down beside her. At first he doesn’t touch her, but then he moves closer until he’s curled around her cooling body. He doesn’t want to let go.

He doesn’t know how much time passes. Long enough to lose track of the days. Long enough that he grows exhausted with lack of sleep, lack of food or water. He can’t leave her side.

He thinks he might be delirious when he hears those heavy footsteps. He doesn’t move when he feels a hand pulling at him. He holds onto her, because this might be the last time. 

_“No!”_ he shouts. “No, please!”

“Let _go!”_

He fights. A sharp crack against the face startles him out of it. He looks up through blurry eyes, face stinging, and he wants nothing more in that moment than for the horrible look on Father’s face to mean what he wants it to mean. At least then, he’ll be with her.

Father draws in a breath. He closes his eyes. “I know.”

Atreus feels his lower lip tremble with the threat of tears. 

He looks at his mother. Her face, sunken and beautiful. What is he going to do without her? What is she going to do without him? He can’t leave her. He can’t.

He doesn’t move, no, instead he is moved. Father forces his hand, makes him let go. His fingers disentangle with the remains of her for the last time. Father simply lifts him to the threshold, takes him outside, and puts him gently on the ground. 

Father looks down at him for a moment. 

“We must prepare her.”

Atreus nods, distantly. Father goes back inside. He leaves the door open behind him, but Atreus does not follow. Instead, he lays down in the dirt.

The ground is cool against his cheek. He closes his eyes.

* * *

“Ow.”

Father adjusts his head again. “Quit complaining.”

Atreus whines. “But you’re rough.”

“You asked for this.”

He’s not as gentle as mother, or as fast. This is the second inking his father has given him, one to match the opposite side of his neck. The older mark isn’t perfect, smudged ink, not like the ones Mother gave him on his arm, his fingers, but he thinks he’s grown to like it. What it means. The first mark his father had given him when she went to Valhalla. 

Besides, it’s nice to lay in Father’s lap. The methodical jabs with the instrument are almost soothing, the constant wiping of his blood. He doesn’t mind the pain. It’s almost welcome, he just likes feeling his Father touch him in what he thinks is meant to soothe.

He’s almost dozed off by the time Father pats his arm, a signal that he’s finished. Atreus keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t lift his head. He feels Father twist at the waist to set down the instrument, the pages of Atreus’ journal fluttering from the movement. He’d written down the runes to be copied, first, Father unfamiliar with the shape of it.

Father’s hand settles at the base of his neck. “This word. What does it mean?”

“Vægðarlaus— relentless.” 

It’s the first word he’s picked himself. Mother had always put words into him, before, made him learn what they meant as his wounds scabbed and healed. 

Atreus hums. “It means I never give up.”

Father chuckles. “Is that what you think?” 

Atreus scowls. “Why not? I don’t.”

“You were to teach me these runes, weren’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Atreus says. He starts to sit up, and Father’s hand drops to his leg. “I want to, but we’re always training.”

“Are we training now?” 

Atreus rolls his eyes. “It’s not _me_ giving up when _you_ never want to do it.” 

Father’s eyes narrow. He motions a hand. Atreus lights up, reaching for his journal. He doesn’t focus on the pain where Father has marked him, but instead on the way Father leans in, how intently he’s focusing on his every move.

* * *

Atreus holds his breath. He waits behind the foliage, watching. 

Father slows. He looks behind him, then ahead. “Atreus!”

It’s not that he wants to worry Father. Not really. But he likes watching him get upset like this. Usually his father is so controlled, and he’s seen him get angry, yes, annoyed but this— this is different. Father has been training him in the art of stealth, lately, and Atreus wants to practice. Properly. 

How are you supposed to ambush someone if they know it’s coming, anyway? 

They’re just in the garden, and Father didn’t bring Mimir to watch his back. Father must trust him more now, because it had been easier for him to slip away. Atreus crouches, preparing his attack. 

“Atreus!” Father bellows. He’s looking now, really looking. “Answer me!”

Father turns his back. Now’s his chance. He creeps out and breaks into a run, fleet footed and silent, closing the short distance between them to leap onto his father’s back. He hooks his arms around Father’s neck, and pulls, trying to topple him over.

He isn’t expecting it when he’s immediately flung to the ground, his bow flaying out to the side. Father crushes him down in the dirt with his weight. He chokes as Father gets his hands around his neck and head, and fear flutters through him as he realizes Father is going to break his neck. The look on his face is pure vengeance, and Atreus gasps, the laughter sucked out of him in an instant. “Father!”

The hands soften. Father’s face does not.

Silence.

“What were you thinking?” he says. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let go.

Atreus can feel his heart thundering in his chest. He lays there, paralyzed.

“I got you,” he says, finally. “I caught you off guard. I’m getting better.”

“I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t,” he pants.

Father’s face smooths out. His eyes seem distant. “But I could have.”

He bested Father. For a moment, at least. Not lashing out as an act of childish arrogance, but using his skill as a warrior. Proving his worth as an equal, not some burden to be watched over or led by the hand. 

Adrenaline races through him, even as they lay still. He feels himself sweating, his body taut. Father holds him down, hands moving to his shoulders. His weight shifts until his knee is pressing between his legs, and Atreus swallows as he realizes his body seems to have reacted the way it usually does only in dreams. 

“If you choose to attack from behind, you must have a weapon at the ready,” Father says. “Don’t hesitate when you have your enemy in a vulnerable state.”

“Yeah,” Atreus says. He starts to squirm. “I know.”

Father keeps him down. “Then why did you hesitate.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you!”

“I did not train you to hesitate, boy.”

Atreus stops moving. His face feels hot. Looking away from Father’s gaze, he tries not to focus on the knee pressed against him. He wants to move. It feels good. 

Father hums. He presses firmer. “And here I thought you were relentless.” 

Atreus arches into it, biting his lip. He feels ashamed though he doesn’t know why. “I’m sorry.”

“It is natural,” Father says. He reaches for Atreus’ face, turning it towards him. Atreus tries to hide his eyes, but he can’t. “The rush of battle can affect the body in many ways.”

He doesn’t want to lose control. Not the way he did back on the mountain, when he lashed out at Father. When he hurt him. He doesn’t want it to happen again, not when Father is finally letting him close. He lays there on the ground and shakes, trying to hold it in.

Father’s hand slips from his shoulder to his hip. He moves him, slightly, pressing his knee against him more firmly. Atreus closes his eyes, lets out a small sound. He starts to move his hips, his father’s hand guiding him.

“Do not be ashamed.”

It doesn’t last long. He doesn’t expect the feeling that overwhelms him, sweeping over his body like a wave. His back arches off the ground and Father’s fingers dig into his skin, and he cries out when it hits him. He’s panting as Father runs his hands over his head, his neck, calming him.

“Good,” Father murmurs. 

He lays there, for a moment. His underclothes are wet and sticky, uncomfortable when he shifts his legs. He does feel better though. He glances up at Father, his smile a little shy. 

“Feel better?”

“Yeah,” Atreus says.

Father sits back, then stands. He extends his hand downward. Atreus takes it, rising to stand beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s already read all of the books he owns. He knows them off by heart, but Father never says yes when he asks to go back to Tyr’s vault. He wants more.

Though all the pages are worn, he’s got his favourites. Mostly stories. The one Mother used to read to him when he couldn’t sleep is the most tattered, but he can’t bring himself to touch it anymore. 

His new favourite is the one with pictures of people kissing. 

He sits cross legged on his bed, head tilted as he looks. He reaches down to touch himself. He’s been able to make his body do the thing it had when he’d trained with Father, but it’s sometimes hard to find the time. He isn’t alone all that much, and he doesn’t know how to ask Father for it.

His fingers skim the pages. They’re mostly boys and girls in these pictures. He doesn’t know any girls aside from Freya and he doesn’t much think she’d want to do this with him, wanting to kill them and all.

“Mimir,” he asks, later. Father is outside gathering firewood, and they’re alone. 

“Yes, Little Brother?”

“Are there places out there with lots of people? Like in the books.” He searches for the word for a moment, only knows the one from his book. “A city, is there a city we could go to?”

Mimir’s eyes glint. He hums thoughtfully. “Why do you ask, lad?”

“No reason.” He suddenly feels like he shouldn’t have asked. He turns his head down. 

Mimir clucks his tongue. “I spent more than a hundred winters alone at the top of a mountain seein’ the same faces. I think I might understand more than most.”

“Are there other kids?” he asks, quieter. “In the cities?”

“Aye.”

“Girl ones?” he murmurs.

Mimir chuckles. “Those too.”

Atreus pauses. “Don’t tell Father I asked.”

They’re walking through the garden later when Mimir tells Father he asked.

His face burns. He’d trusted Mimir. He can’t even have one secret, one thing to himself. Everyone always knows more than him.

“Why would you want to go to a city?” Father asks.

“I don’t know,” Atreus mumbles.

“Might be good for him, don’t you think?” Mimir says. “Meet some common folk what aren’t trying to kill him.”

“No.”

Atreus turns, walking backwards to face him. He has to move quickly, Father’s steps much longer than his own. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Father stops. He looks down, and his face makes it clear it’s not up for discussion. Atreus rolls his eyes. He turns, starts walking deliberately ahead.

“It might be wise for him to meet someone his own age, don’t you think, brother?” he hears Mimir say, distantly.

He doesn't hear Father's answer.

They don’t speak for the rest of the outing, and Atreus crawls straight into his bed when they return home. He pulls the covers over his head and doesn’t understands why he wants something so badly that he’s never even had before.

* * *

He knows he’s being quiet. It’s unlike him. Father doesn’t say much to him other than orders and Mimir fills the silence with chatter and observations that grow more unneeded as the silence grows. 

Father must be angry with him. More and more he wishes he’d never said anything, never even wondered at all. He even tries to mess up, misses shots, runs ahead, just to get Father to chastise him, but he won’t even do that. He won’t even look at him.

He just heaves his axe out of the frozen corpse of a draugr, slings it over his back. He walks forward, like Atreus isn’t even there. 

The snow picks up. They make camp in an alcove as the dark sets in to wait out the storm. It had been a reaver’s camp once, fresh ash in the firepit, furs left in haste. At least there aren’t any bodies.

Atreus huddles down under the furs, gazing at the embers of the dying fire. The food he’d eaten feels greasy in his belly. It’s cold, and he can’t seem to sleep.

He glances over, but Mimir’s eyes are closed. He sighs, raising a fist to rub at his eyes. He’s tired but no sleep will come. It’s not like he can ask Father to tell him a story. 

Father. He tries not to look, to where he’s propped up against the rock, looking out into the storm. Father seems just as tired as he feels. Atreus frowns. This is all his fault. 

“You know I can sense you looking.”

He bites his lip. Father doesn’t turn to face him.

“What is it you want that a city will bring you?”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say anything.

“What is it that I alone can’t give you?” Father murmurs, his voice so far away.

Atreus sniffs. He blinks back tears, pushing the furs down to clamber out from within. He steps around the fire, towards his father, gazing down at him. He almost flinches at the harsh look in Father’s eyes, comes closer when it softens.

When he was very small, he’d hung onto his mother’s skirts, buried his head in her chest whenever she’d allowed it. Father had never been affectionate. Now, Father is all he has left. 

He crawls into Father’s lap. Father doesn’t seem to know how to react, sits back with his arms spread like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Atreus turns in Father’s lap, until he’s facing outward, back to chest. 

Atreus reaches for Father’s hands. He guides them to wrap around his chest, hooking his fingers around Father’s scarred forearms. He draws in a breath, looks out into the snow.

For a moment, Father hesitates. Then, his arms tighten, pulling him in. The back of Atreus’s head settles against his shoulder, and he hums, quietly.

Father doesn’t let go until dawn.

* * *

“You never answered my question.”

He’s sweating, his bow hand stiff from overuse. They’ve been training for hours, now, the two of them.

“What question?” Atreus pants. He fires off another arrow. Father deflects it, easily. He’s getting sloppy, he knows.

“Think, boy.”

He rolls out of the way as Father charges him with his shield, not quick enough to avoid being thrown to the ground. He pulls himself up to his feet with haste, dashing back.

“How am I supposed to think when you’re— ah! Hey!” 

Father puts him on his back. Atreus grunts as the wind knocks out of him, struggling to get up as Father holds him down.

“Come on,” Atreus whines. Father does not relent. 

“You must keep your mind at the forefront of your actions,” Father says. He presses a finger on Atreus’s forehead. “Think.”

“What question…” Atreus repeats. He tries to catch his breath, his mind working. It comes to him at once. “About the city?”

“Yes.” 

He’s jerked back to his feet. Gathering his bearings, he watches as Father backs off, preparing for another assault. Atreus digs his heels in, draws his bow. He feels self-conscious. That’s probably the point. He tries desperately to focus. 

Reaching back to his quiver for an arrow, he nocks it quickly, but Father is already approaching. He can’t think, trying to aim, he can’t think, and Father rams him at full strength, knocking him back to the ground.

Father stands over him and chuckles. “You are too in your head.”

“It’s stupid,” Atreus says. He can’t look Father in the eyes.

“I will be the judge of that.”

Atreus sits up. He puts his hands on his knees, shrugs. He was never good at keeping things to himself.

“There’s this book I like,” he mumbles. He shrugs again. “I don’t know.”

“The kissing book, yes,” Father says. “I know of it. Your mother showed me, too.”

His face goes red all the way out to his ears. He tries to cover his head, but Father holds onto his hands. 

“I see.”

“It’s stupid,” Atreus repeats.

“You want to know what it feels like. A kiss.” 

Atreus keeps his head down. He nods, slightly.

Father pulls him back to his feet. “Then you must earn one.”

He stands, baffled. Father gives him only a moment before rushing him again. This time, Atreus reacts. He fights with purpose. His arrows fly true.

The last shot sings, flying in an arc past Father’s cheek. Blood blossoms on his skin. Atreus draws in his breath. First blood is the winner.

Father steps towards him, wiping the blood off his cheek. Atreus lowers his bow, watching Father lick the blood from the pad of his thumb. Atreus draws in a slow breath.

On one knee before him, Father beckons him closer. Cautious, he steps inward. Father brings his index finger to his mouth, touching his lower lip.

Atreus leans in. He’s never had a kiss before. Father slips a finger under his chin, tips his face towards his own. His eyes close. His nose bumps against Father’s, his beard tickles. His mouth is warm and damp against his own.

Father draws back. His expression is proud.

His mouth feels wet. Atreus wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Weird.”

“Was it?” 

“And good,” Atreus says, shyly.

Father chuckles. He stands. 

“Now, again.”

Atreus earns three more kisses by nightfall.

* * *

On the third day of a blizzard, the snowfall gets so bad the roof caves in. They spend the entire day chopping down trees, cutting wood, Father barking orders at him over the sound of the storm. It’s miserable outside and it hurts to breathe and by the end of it Atreus is so pent up and frustrated he isn’t sure whether he wants to scream or fall asleep.

By the time they finally make it back inside, a fire going, it’s muggy from the evaporating water the snow had left behind. Atreus knows he’s being moody, snappish whenever Father tells him to do something. Go here, do this, take this, don’t do that. He’s tired of listening, he knows what he’s doing. Mimir has gone to sleep, likely from having to listen to them bicker for hours. It’s exhausting. 

He finally goes quiet, stops pushing as they finish up the underside reinforcements. He might as well not be there, seeming to exist for the sole purpose of handing his Father things.

“What is the matter?” Father asks, sensing his restlessness. 

Atreus shrugs. “Nothing.”

Father grunts. He wants an answer, that much is clear.

Atreus rolls his eyes. “Why are we wasting our time with this?” 

“What else should we be doing?” Father says.

“Something other than stupid house repairs?” Atreus sighs. He throws his handful of nails on the table. “Forget it.”

Father regards him as if he were a chair or some type of furniture. “You are upset.”

“I want you to teach me something actually useful!”

“A roof over your head is not useful?”

“It’s not _not_ useful, but—”

“Enough,” Father says. He turns back to the task at hand.

“Why?” 

He knows he’s just trying to get on Father’s nerves now. Trying to see how much further he can push. He wants attention— the physical kind. As much as Mimir can talk for hours without stopping, it’s not the same as sparring with Father. He can count the number of kisses he’s earned on one hand. He wants more.

“Because I tire of your questions.”

He does, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to pick a fight about it. A physical one. He pretends to turn away, then feints, leaping onto his Father’s back, his ankles hooking around his waist. He waits for some kind of retaliation. 

It doesn’t come. Father just lowers his arms, sighing. 

“This work will not get done on its own.”

“What do I have to do to earn more than kisses?” Atreus asks. “I know there’s other stuff you can teach me.”

Father’s muscles tense beneath his hands. “Atreus…”

“Like you did the first time,” he continues. “Can you do that again?”

“You cannot do it yourself?” Father murmurs.

“I can,” he admits. He doesn’t get much alone time, but when he does, he can make it happen. “But it feels better when it’s you.”

Father is quiet for a moment. Then, he looks over his shoulder at him. “I did not expect you to ask so boldly.”

“Come on, I _know_ you like teaching me stuff.”

“Hm.”

“Is that a yes?” Atreus asks with a grin.

Father pauses. “This is what you truly want?”

It’s a strange question. Atreus hitches himself higher on his Father’s back, so he can see his face clearly.

“Would I ask if it wasn’t?”

It seems to appease him.

“Let us finish the repairs,” Father says. He motions for Atreus to move. “And then we will see.”

Atreus drops back to the floor. “Yes, sir!”

He doesn’t backtalk. He keeps quiet, helping to the point where his presence is almost a nuisance. Father banishes him briefly to deal with Mimir for the night, tucking him up in his cupboard. Mimir opens an eye to look at him, the gold light disappearing as he closes the door with a quiet, “Good night.” 

“Be careful, lad,” Mimir says, in response. He doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, though. It’s just Father.

He’s brimming with excitement by the time Father stands back to admire his handiwork. Atreus practically throws himself at Father’s bed in preparation.

Unsure what he’s supposed to do at this point, Atreus sits cross-legged, looking up at his father, starry-eyed. His body is already reacting to the prospect of what’s to come, stiff under his tunic. Father has a very serious expression as he sits beside him, hands on his knees. 

Certain he’s about to get some kind of lecture, he leans forward, reaching for his Father. He’d like to get to the kissing instead, but Father puts a hand on his shoulder, keeps him at a distance. “Oh, come on!” 

“You are very young, Atreus,” Father says, solemnly. 

“So?” he whines.

“You must trust me to know your limits.”

“What does that even mean?” 

“Get undressed.”

“Right now?”

Father looks at him. “Do as I say.”

He does. Quickly. And he doesn’t expect it when Father picks him up, dragging them back until they’re both propped up against the wooden headboard. He’s fully naked but Father’s still clothed from the waist down, ashen white skin, hot as always. He configures them until they’re like that night in the cave, back to chest, his father’s hands on his shoulders from behind.

“I can’t kiss you like this,” Atreus says.

“You said you wanted more than that.”

“But—”

“Do you want this or do you not?”

Atreus goes quiet. His body is still just as eager, though. Father hums behind him, and he can feel the vibrations along his spine, the curve of it fitting so sweetly against Father’s chest and belly.

“Close your eyes.”

He does. He draws in a slow breath, trying to calm himself. _Focus,_ Father is always saying. This doesn’t feel unlike battle. He’s trying to prove himself to Father, here, too. 

Father’s hands slip from his shoulders down to his chest. His hands are so large, they cover practically his entire rib cage. He leans back, his legs shaking as he strains to keep himself still.

“What do you feel?” Father asks. 

Atreus pauses. 

“...Nervous.” 

Father laughs. A real one. He feels stupid, but he doesn’t want it to stop either. 

“Physically,” Father clarifies.

Atreus thinks. It’s surprisingly hard to think, naked in his father’s lap, in this context.

“Your hands,” he says, “on my skin.”

“Good,” Father says.

“They’re so much bigger than mine.”

His hands slip lower. Atreus opens his legs on instinct, pressing his hips up towards the touch. Father isn’t gentle, but he isn’t rough, either. He wants desperately to grab his hand, and push it where he wants it to go. He’s worried if he tries that Father will stop this altogether, so he doesn’t move.

Father’s hands slip to his thighs. His legs jump at the touch, and he draws in a shaky inhale. He can feel his father’s beard tickling against his neck and he pulls his shoulders in, shying away from it. It’s embarrassing to think Father is looking at him, seeing him hard and leaking down there.

“Go ahead,” says Father. His voice is softer, lower than usual. “Use your hands.”

He does. It instantly soothes the ache between his legs, wrapping one hand around himself. Atreus moans, moving it back and forth. His chest heaves as he breathes, and Father squeezes his legs in encouragement.

“Good.”

It feels good. He grinds his hips, his hand moving. “Father—” 

“I know.” 

“More,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know what he wants, but Father must. 

Father hums, and for a moment Atreus isn’t sure he’s going to give him what he wants. He whines, pushes into his Father’s hands, holding him down by the legs. He seems to respond to this, one hand slipping up his chest to brush a thumb against his nipple. It’s not really what he wants, no, he wants those hands around him in place of his own. But Father doesn’t seem to want to give him that.

Still, his own hands feel good. He can feel that sensation building, his heart racing. It feels better in his Father’s arms, doing this. Safer. The touching only adds to the feeling, the rhythmic squeezing on his inner thigh, Father’s other hand sliding to his neck. He cranes his head back, wishing not for the first time that he was bigger. He can’t kiss Father from this angle. 

Father cradles his jaw with his massive palm. He turns his head, his mouth pressing against Atreus’s brow. “Let go, son.”

Atreus cries out. It takes him over before he can even anticipate it, his muscles tensing all over. His mind is a pleasant blank, and Father holds him steady as it rolls through him, pulsing from inside out.

He’s still gasping, his toes curling into the furs. It feels more intense than it usually does. Father just holds him, murmuring quiet instructions for him to breathe. Awareness comes back to him in bits and pieces, and Atreus squirms, opening his eyes. 

“Wow,” he says.

Father strokes his neck, thumb along his pulse. “Better?”

Almost. He can feel Father’s hardness pressing against his ass. He rolls his hips, experimentally, and Father’s hand grips down on his leg, stopping him. “Hey!”

“What did I say, boy?”

He sighs. “I have to trust you to know my limits, I know.”

Atreus sags back into his Father’s arms. It was worth a shot. Father wipes his hands off with a rag, cleans between his legs. It’s the first he’s touched him down there, and the touch makes him start to stiffen again. When Father goes to pull his hand away, he grabs for it, but Father is stronger.

“No.”

Atreus groans. “Why not?”

“You’ve had enough.”

“But I want you to use _your_ hands,” he whines.

“Atreus.” 

Father’s tone is sharp. It’s not up for debate. Atreus kicks his legs like he’s little again, throwing some kind of tantrum, but it’s just for show. He turns in his father’s lap to throw his arms around him, so they’re face to face.

“Can I have a kiss?” He smiles. “Just one.”

At first he thinks Father is going to say no. That he’s asking for too much. Father surprises him, the way he always seems to surprise him, by leaning in. 

It’s different than the kisses Father has given him before. Father holds his jaw, prying open his mouth, his tongue forcing inside. He doesn’t know what to do, so he holds his mouth open. Father’s other hand pulls at his hair, easing his head back so that he can get deeper. His nose is squished against Father’s face, it’s hard to breathe and a bit uncomfortable, but he feels a little thrill run through him. This is how a _man_ kisses. How a God kisses.

Father pulls back. He draws in a deep breath, the same way Atreus has seen him do when he’s about to get angry. He doesn’t know why Father would be angry about that.

“To bed, now,” he says. He squeezes Atreus’s hip, then gives him a pat on the ass. “Your own.”

Atreus sticks his lower lip out. “Really?”

“Go.”

He untangles himself from his Father’s arms, slips off to his own bed. Underneath the furs he lays his head down as Father blows out the last candles, the light giving way to total darkness. 

It’s the first night in a long time he doesn’t have nightmares.

* * *

“No.”

Father is quiet. Atreus can feel the tension in the room, but he continues playing with his toys, pretending he does not hear his parents arguing behind him.

His Father continues. “But don’t you think it—”

“I said no,” says Mother. Atreus hears her move to the other side of the room. He keeps his head down.

“He will be a man one day, Faye,” Father murmurs. “Would you not prefer him be prepared?” 

“There is time,” Mother says.

“He must learn. You cannot protect him forever.” 

Father sounds angry. Atreus bristles.

“What do you think I am protecting him from?” Mother says.

There’s silence. A creak of wood, his Father’s footsteps. The door slams so hard that Atreus jumps. 

He turns back to look at Mother. She stands looking at the door like it’s holding some kind of riddle. Atreus stands, going to her side. He tugs on her hand. 

“Mother?”

She looks down at him, and does not smile or speak. 

Atreus swallows. “Why is he so mad?”

Mother chuckles. “That is who he is.”

He looks towards the door. “Is he coming back?”

Mother does not answer him. And Father doesn't return for a very, very long time.

* * *

_”Atreus!”_

His vision is black. The last thing he remembers is being flung through the air by a troll, but everything after that gets a little fuzzy.

Atreus tries to pull himself up off the ground, but there’s something holding him down. He puts his hands on it, but he can’t get it off. It’s rough under his palms, and he realizes it must be a tree. 

He hears Father calling for him, but he can’t make the words come out. It’s just a wheeze. He holds an arm up to produce some sparks, hoping Father will see it. Wherever he is. He starts to panic, he still can’t see. He can’t speak. He is helpless.

It feels like hours, days, maybe, but finally Father finds him. He senses him around his head, and Atreus makes a weak sound, reaching for him. 

“Don’t move.”

Father starts to pull the trunk off of him, and pain sears through his chest. Atreus cries out, reaching for where there’s a branch speared through the right side of his chest. Straight through his armor. He starts to panic, there’s so much blood.

“Brother, careful!” Mimir says. Father follows his gaze, and stops lifting.

“Atreus, calm yourself,” Father says. “Cut the branch at the base, and do not pull it from the wound.”

He struggles to pull in breath through his nose, reaching for his knife. He does as his father instructs, using the blade with shaky hands, leaving the branch embedded in his body. 

The tree is lifted up and off of him. Father comes to his side, his hands moving over his chest, checking the damage. 

“We must move him somewhere safe,” Mimir says. He sounds as if he’s trying not to sound frantic.

“Did I kill the troll?” Atreus asks. His sight is starting to come back in scatters of colour. He can make out Father’s face.

Father slips his hands under his head and neck, careful not to jostle his injury. Atreus grunts as he’s lifted into his arms. Father looks down at him, and his eyes are so warm and full of pride he can almost forget how hard it is to breathe.

“Yes,” Father says. “You did well.”

The words keep him alert for as long as it takes to find shelter. He’s in and out of consciousness as Father removes his armor, his tunic underneath. The exposed sight of the branch through his chest makes him feel nauseous. It looks bad.

“I’m fine,” Atreus mumbles. “I’m a god, right?”

He coughs. There’s blood coming out of his mouth.

Father looks at his face grimly. “This will hurt.”

“I can take it,” Atreus chokes.

He blacks out from the pain. He comes to again, and Father is holding his palm flat against his chest, but the blood doesn’t stop coming. He focuses on Father’s face, but he’s so distant. He’s so far away, like things were before, before Mother was gone, before their journey.

His vision goes dark.

When he comes to again, it’s dusk out. There’s a fire roaring, and he’s warm. He looks around, sees Mimir propped up on a rock, watching with knowing eyes.

He attempts to shift, but the arms around him hold him closer. 

“Stay still,” Father says.

Atreus stops moving. He tries an experimental breath. It’s tight, and he looks down at his chest, realizing he’s been wrapped with bandaging from nipple to navel. There’s a bit of blood soaked through, but it doesn’t look dangerous.

“See,” Atreus murmurs. “I’m okay.” He sounds astonished, even to himself.

“You are,” Father says.

He starts to move again. Father holds him closer. He doesn’t let go.

“I’m okay,” Atreus says, again. “Really.”

Father’s arms only tighten. It takes Atreus a moment but he realizes that this might be more for Father than it is for him. The idea that his father, so strong, so capable, might _need_ him as much as he needs Father.

He lays his head back down on Father’s chest. His heartbeat is loud, strong against his ear. He hopes he can be strong for Father. He hopes he can be what Father wanted.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes a week or so before he’s back to normal. He has another scar, but it’s nothing new. 

At first, Father goes easy on him. It doesn’t last long. 

Father trains him harder. He used to feel like a baby, like Father was pulling his punches, but now he gets the full brunt of it and he understands why. He wasn’t ready before. Father was right. And now he ends up face down in the dirt more often than not, but he always gets back up, no matter how much it hurts.

They go again.

He’s flung a hundred feet through the air. He only manages to brace himself by curling in, doing a hard roll onto the ground, his body sliding another fifty feet until there’s a divot in the earth his body left. 

Atreus is gasping for air as he pulls himself to his knees, his palms bleeding, his bow lost somewhere to the battlefield. He tries to reach for his knife but a big hand wraps around his shoulder, drags him until his feet are dangling in the air. 

It feels like his shoulder is about to pop out of the socket. He struggles, kicking at his Father’s mass, but his legs are too short. It doesn’t matter if it hurts. Father will not stop.

He twists, cries out as he feels his shoulder give, but it’s enough that he can kick Father solidly in the face. Father shouts, and he lets go, Atreus launching himself far and away even though his arm feels like it’s on fire. 

Atreus lands in a crouch, his arm useless, but he doesn’t relent. He reaches for his knife, yelling as he advances. Father is prepared for it, knocks him back, pins him down on the ground. Pain sears through his shoulder, makes him act.

“Get off of me!” Atreus yells, and it’s not Father, it’s somebody else. He doesn’t feel anything but the need to survive. “I’ll kill you!” 

He thrusts his arm forward, knife in hand, feels it slide through flesh. He keeps kicking, keeps moving, it’s not over if he’s still moving, he stabs again and hears a grunt. 

“Atreus.”

“I hate you!” he yells, and he wrenches the knife out, stabs again. His hand is slippery with blood. “I _fucking hate you!”_

_"Enough!"_

He stops. It’s Father’s voice. He catches his breath, his eyes refocusing. It’s Father on top of him. Father’s broad chest, Father’s blood. His knife sticking out under Father’s clavicle. 

Father reaches for the knife, and pulls it out like it’s nothing. He flips it in his hand, offering it back to him, handle first.

“Good,” Father says. He’s smiling. His lip is split where Atreus kicked him.

Atreus reaches for his knife. His shooting arm is all but useless, so he has to use his other hand. He starts to sit up, and Father helps him, fixes his shoulder, too. It hurts, but he feels good about his victory. 

Weird, though, too.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, later, over rabbit stew. 

Father looks at him. He doesn’t speak. There are healing wounds across his chest. They’re deep, but not that deep.

Atreus wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, puts his bowl down. “What I said before...” He lowers his voice marginally. “I didn’t mean it.”

His stomach churns. He looks at his father to speak, but Father stays silent. Mimir watches where he’s propped up on the table against a book.

“I’m sorry,” Atreus says.

“What are you sorry for?” Father says.

“I don’t hate you,” he clarifies. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Father just looks at him. Atreus slouches, feeling stupid. He tilts over like a dead tree until the side of his face squishes into Father’s big arm. He groans. Father just leaves him like that for a moment, before lifting his arm and putting it over his shoulders. He pats him a few times.

“I understand,” Father says. 

Atreus lifts his head. He thinks he’s starting to understand, too.

* * *

He wakes at night. This is not unusual for Atreus, but he checks between his legs, and there’s nothing. No Gods, no trace of Mother’s voice in his ear. He looks around in the darkness. It’s not his dream, for once, that wakes him. His eyes track to Father’s bed, adjusting to the depth of the night.

Father talks in his sleep. Not quite words, but not nothing, either. Atreus sits back and watches for a moment, unsure of himself. He’s never seen Father like this before. 

Atreus slips out from under his furs. His feet touch the wood, and he’s light, quiet as he approaches Father’s bed. Father is sweating, twisting and murmuring to himself. 

He touches his arm. Just grazes his fingertips along Father’s bicep, up to his shoulder. 

“Father.”

Father’s face creases, like he’s in pain. Atreus moves closer, hand on his chest. 

“Father, wake up,” he murmurs. “It’s just a dream.” 

He’s never known Father to dream. His fingers edge the healing wounds he created, though they’re almost gone already. He wonders if this is his fault.

He thinks of the book that Mother used to read him before bed, his favorite. The tale of Brynhildr sleeping in the circle of fire, waiting to be rescued. Though Father wears no helmet, no chainmail armor, Atreus wonders if he’s strong enough to rescue Father from this. He knows too well what it’s like to feel trapped.

He wets his lips. He leans close to Father’s ear, and starts speaking words his Mother used to before sleep would take him.

 _“Munu við ofstríð_  
_alls til lengi_  
_konur ok karlar_  
_kvikvir fæðask;_  
_við skulum okkrum_  
_aldri slíta_  
_Sigurðr saman._  
_Sökkstu, gýgjar kyn.”_

Atreus keeps his hand on Father’s chest. He feels him calm under his fingertips. Father draws in a deep, steady breath. Atreus doesn’t move his hand.

Slowly, like the sun moves over the horizon, Father opens his eyes. Atreus does not move his hand.

Father’s hand slides up from under the furs, settling over his. 

“You sound like her,” Father says, his voice rough with something more than sleep. 

He brings Atreus’s hand to his mouth, and kisses the back of his bruised knuckles.

His vision starts to blur. He doesn’t mean to cry. Father pulls him into the bed, and Atreus lays on top of him, cradled in his arms. He doesn’t cry for very long, but it feels good to be held.

Father’s skin is tacky with sweat, and he’s hanging onto him like he’s afraid to let go. He remembers thinking Father didn’t know fear. He’d been so naive.

“It’s okay,” Atreus mumbles. He pulls himself up to his palms, but Father doesn’t seem to want to let him move too far. Atreus sniffs, his head ducking to press a kiss to Father’s forehead. Mother used to do it, and it always made him feel better.

“Don’t,” Father says.

“Just let me.”

He tries again, but Father holds him away.

“I want to,” Atreus says. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, boy,” Father says. 

“Then teach me.”

“Your mother would not want this.”

The anger that flares inside of him is almost startling. Atreus pulls himself up onto his hands, digging his fingers into his broad chest, and Father lets go. 

“How do you know? Mom’s dead,” Atreus says. His face creases in dismay. “She’s dead, and she’s gone, and she’s never coming back, and she _left me_ here alone. With you.”

Father goes quiet. 

Atreus leans down and kisses him on the mouth, and Father does not stop him this time.

He can taste the salt from his own tears as he opens his mouth. He closes his eyes. Father kisses him hard, hard enough to hurt. It’s what he asked for. Father’s hands are big and broad as they stroke over his back and shoulders, down to his ass. 

Atreus releases a small, breathy sound as Father holds his hips, starts moving him against him. Father’s hands shift again, under his clothes, his palms rough against his bare skin. 

He sits up abruptly, and Atreus moves with him, spreading his thighs over Father’s lap. He can barely catch his breath when Father’s holding his cheek, kissing him again. He feels his face grow hot, his body reacting. Father’s hand slips between his legs, squeezing him through cloth.

The barrier between them is maddening. Atreus reaches down to start to undo the ties, and Father stills his hand. 

“I will set the pace,” Father says. His breath is warm against Atreus’s skin.

“But… you’re slow.”

Father frowns, and Atreus knows he shouldn’t push his luck. But he wants more. He’s about to speak again when Father pushes at his hip. He slips off onto the bed, and Father arranges him onto his back. His hands pull at Atreus’s clothing, and he’s naked before too long. 

He looks up to where Father is sitting back on his knees. He’s naked, too. He’s seen Father naked a lot of times before, but not like this. Atreus looks down, and Father is so much bigger than him in all ways. He wonders if he’ll get big like that one day.

Atreus reaches to touch, but Father pushes him back. Atreus pulls himself up to his elbows. “Are you gonna let me do anything?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Father moves over him in one languid shift of muscle, and Atreus’s breath catches in his throat as he looks up at him. Father doesn’t put his weight down, holds himself at a distance. 

“Can you kiss me at least?” Atreus asks.

Father looks at him. His hand slips to Atreus’s cheek, tips his chin up for a kiss.

Atreus lays there until he can’t take it. He wants to touch. His hands raise, slowly, grazing his father’s scarred arms as if asking permission. Father doesn’t stop him, so he lets his palms settle against his neck. He brings his knees up until his feet push flat against the bed, framing his father’s considerable size. 

His body wants more than just kisses. He’s still so nervous. He starts to grab at Father’s shoulders, wanting him to go lower but unsure. Father shifts, pressing his mouth to Atreus’s neck. He can’t help but laugh, pushing him back.

“Hey, that tickles,” he says. 

Father looks down at him for a moment. Then, he leans in close and rubs his beard against his neck on purpose. “Don’t!” Atreus laughs, trying to fight him off. “Stop it!”

He kicks, twists as Father tries to pin him down. It feels almost like sparring, and he knows how to do this, slipping out of Father’s grip until he’s down on his front. He laughs, trying to pull his shoulders close to his ears, and Father settles his weight down on him to hold him still. Atreus stops laughing. His face feels hot. 

He can feel his father’s hardness pressing against the crest of his tailbone. It’s intimidating. Atreus turns his head, looking over his shoulder. Father is looking down between them. Atreus swallows, pushes his ass up, and Father’s hand slips underneath his body. His fingers skim Atreus’s ribcage, travel down between his legs. 

Atreus moans. He closes his eyes, pushes into the touch. Father’s mouth is hot and wet against his ear, his breathing ragged, but he doesn’t make a sound otherwise. 

It’s hard to breathe. Everything feels hot. Father is so heavy on top of him, and his hand is so steady. Father starts to rock against him, pushing him down into the bed. He hides his face in the furs, mouth open, and he tries to hold on. He can’t last. He cries out as it overtakes him, and Father holds him through it, his hand moving steadily beneath them.

He starts to relax. Father shifts behind him, his hand moving to Atreus’s outer thigh. “Father?” Atreus mumbles. 

“Keep your legs together. Tight.” 

He hooks his ankles together. Father slides off, rolling him onto his side. His father’s pressed up tight behind him, and it makes Atreus feel safe. He sighs happily as Father’s hand presses underneath his ass, his length nudging between his thighs. 

Atreus opens his legs just wide enough that Father can slide between them. He’s so thick, and every movement makes him slide up against his most sensitive parts. Atreus makes a small sound, feeling himself start to harden again. He reaches back for Father, and Father hooks his elbow around one of his arms, holds him open so he can look down between the tangle of their bodies. 

He feels so small with Father on him like this. Father breathing hard in his ear. Every roll of his hips makes his eyes roll back. 

“Squeeze your legs,” Father says. 

Atreus tenses his muscles. Father’s breathing catches. Listening to him, feeling needed by him in this way, it brings Atreus to the precipice again. Father’s mouth against his temple sends him over the edge. 

He’s panting, trying to catch his breath. He feels so wet between his legs, and he looks down. Father is starting to soften between the press of his thighs.

He reaches down, touching the slickness of their shared release. “Whoa.” 

A sense of pride fills him, knowing he can make Father feel as good as he does. He’s the only one who gets to do that.

Father turns him in his arms, and Atreus presses his face into his father’s sweaty neck. He holds him so tightly it borders on painful, and Atreus can’t see his father’s face. He imagines Father looks just as content as he feels.

He laughs. “I guess you liked it too.” 

Atreus pulls his head back, searches his father’s face. It’s not what he expected. A feeling like sickness begins inside of him, and he swallows, touching Father’s chest. The marks from his knife are faint, but still there.

“Father?”

Father sits up. Atreus moves off of him, onto his knees. He wants to ask questions, but he doesn’t know where to start. 

Atreus frowns. “Did I do something wrong?” His voice sounds so small. He thought they were getting closer.

“No.”

“Then… are you okay?” Atreus asks, into the darkness.

Father doesn’t answer him. Atreus waits. His eyes grow heavy, and yet still he waits for understanding.

He falls asleep in Father’s bed, his body fitting sweetly into the empty space his mother left behind.

* * *

He’s walking ahead when he hears Mimir speak in low tones behind him. Father is keeping his distance and he understands why, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less. 

He pushed too far too fast. He’s impulsive, as always. Atreus keeps his head down as his feet drag through the knee-deep snow. He listens.

Father is saying something to Mimir. Atreus slows even further, but he can’t make out all the words. His name, yes, but the rest is kept from his ears.

He peeks over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Father lifting Mimir by the horns. He sees Father raise him to his face. They exchange words, and Atreus squints like it’ll help him hear better.

Atreus listens so intently he doesn’t make out the log on the ground directly ahead of him. He trips, and falls face-first into the snow.

“Boy!” Father yells. “What are you doing?”

He pushes up to his hands and knees. It’s the most Father’s said to him all day.

“Nothing!” he says, flashing a grin. He stands up, dusts his tunic off. 

“Watch yourself, lad,” Mimir says. He sounds weary. 

“I know!”

Atreus runs ahead, his face burning. Father does not say another word to him for the rest of the day.

* * *

He waits until Father is asleep to reach for Mimir. Atreus puts a finger to his lips as Mimir opens his eyes, then covers the light with his palm. They’re sleeping in the forest tonight, the sky clear overhead, and the fire burned down to a low ember.

He’s quiet enough to creep out into the snow. He glances back at Father, but Father doesn’t move. Still asleep.

He sits down cross legged on a rock a fair distance from their camp, turns Mimir’s head to face him in his palms.

“Aye, lad,” Mimir says, “What is it?”

“What did Father say to you before?” Atreus asks.

“Talk? We didn’t talk. You know your Da’, and he ain’t the chatty sort.”

“I know you said something to him. I saw. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course you’re not stupid, lad, not at all.” Mimir’s eyes flick past him. “You should ask _him_ , though, I would think.”

Atreus turns Mimir’s head so he has no choice but to look at him. He scoffs. “Do you really think Father would tell me if I asked?”

“You’ve got a point.”

“So you gotta tell me,” Atreus says.

Mimir’s eyes go soft. “I don’t think it’s really my place, Little Brother.” 

“Then you’re not _that_ sorry,” Atreus says, exasperated. He sighs, his thumbs curving around Mimir’s horns. His voice goes small. “Is he mad at me?”

“Well, it’s complicated.”

“So he _is_ mad at me.”

“I am not mad at you,” Father says, standing beside him.

Atreus goes rigid. He cranes his head up. “Father.”

Father looks down at him for only a moment. There are deep circles under his eyes, a weariness there he’s never let Atreus see before. 

He keeps his distance. Mimir is silent, watching.

Atreus reaches his hand out, his fingers curling around his Father’s. He squeezes. Father’s hand is limp.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m just… glad we’re together.”

He lets go. 

“It’s what Mom would’ve wanted,” Atreus murmurs.

He looks out at the night sky. A moment passes, and then Father’s hand settles gently on his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

They find a dragon in a cavern. Atreus insists on freeing it, and doing so brings down the side of a mountain. One moment they’re side by side, and then it’s pure white. Then, darkness.

It feels like hours to dig himself out. It must be twenty feet of snow, and his hands are burning by the time he sees the sun. Atreus gasps, shivering as he pulls himself out from the snowbank.

He lays there, face down and panting, his eyelashes frozen together. He pulls himself up to his knees, trying to gather his bearings. He at least has his bow. Only three arrows left, and one’s bent, though. His knife. 

But he’s alone. He doesn’t know where Father is. 

“Father?” he calls out. He can hardly hear anything over the sound of the wind. It’d been clear when they’d ventured inward, but there’s another blizzard starting. 

He cups his hands around his mouth, screams himself hoarse. _”Father!”_

No one answers. He is alone.

Atreus stands. He slings his bow over his shoulder, and he starts walking.

* * *

The strength of the wind and snow forces him to seek shelter. He wants to look for Father, but he has no choice but to pull himself into a hollowed out log. It smells like rot and it’s dark, but he can’t see his hand in front of his face with the weather the way it is.

He pulls his knees to his chest, sets his chin atop. He’s cold. Lonely. 

He thinks about going home. Mimir is there, so he wouldn’t be alone. Maybe Father would know to go back there. But what if something happened to him? He can’t leave.

He’ll find Father. He will. Father’s probably out there looking for him and he’s in here hiding like a little coward. It was his own fault for wanting to free the dragon. He should’ve just listened to Father and let it be.

Atreus wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He puts his forehead onto his knees and releases a low groan. He knows he should conserve his energy and wait until it’s clearer outside, but every part of him wants to look. He doesn’t want to lose Father. He doesn’t want to be alone. 

He’s not ready to be alone.

He closes his eyes. Tries to listen. There are no voices, now, only the sounds of the storm. 

What if Father is dead? The thought crosses his mind only for a moment, and then he can’t get it out. No, Father won’t be killed so easily. He is a God. If he survived the collapse, then Father is more than fine.

But what if he isn’t? What if Father’s out there injured and he needs him? What if waiting here is wasting precious seconds he could be saving him?

He tries to think of what Father would do. Father would tell him to be patient, probably. Father would let himself die than put him at risk.

He would rather be dead with Father than alone. His eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t think Father would end up in Valhalla with Mother. Neither will he if he dies a coward.

* * *

It’s nightfall when the snow stops. He walks through shin deep powder, listening to the sounds of the forest. He hears nothing. No voices, not even birds. It’s like sleep has fallen over Midgard.

He sticks close to the base of the mountain. Father can’t have gone far. He tries to think of what Father would do— find shelter. Some sort of cover from the elements.

There’s a clutch of trees that seem promising. He steps into the cradle of fir and pine, slowing as he hears murmurings. Hel-Walkers. He’s fought on his own before, yes, but Father was always within reach. 

He climbs up into the treeline, obscuring himself from view. He looks for an alternate route, but the woods are too thick. He has no choice but to face them.

What he doesn’t have in strength he can make up for in speed, in cunning. He reaches for an arrow and hesitates. Only three left. He’ll have to be smart about this. There are ten of them and only one of him.

He takes a breath. Atreus fires the first arrow, electricity leaping through his fingertips, then leaps down onto the Hel-Walker’s back. He pulls the arrow out and fires it again, into the second. The rest descend on him. His mind lets go, his body taking over, and he kills until there is nothing left to kill.

Atreus pants, wipes blood from his arm. Only a nick, it’ll be fine. He still has two arrows left, so it went better than expected.

Shouldering his bow, he steps back from the pile of bodies. He wishes Father had seen him fight. He wonders if he’d be proud.

It’s mid-morning by the time he makes it to the edge of the forest. There’s what looks like an abandoned reaver camp by the end of it. 

“Must be where the Hel-Walkers came from,” Atreus murmurs to no one. 

Snowfall is light, and it’s still quiet, save for the sudden growl of his stomach. He puts his hand to his belly. In his haste to find Father, he’d forgotten his own needs.

There’s not much in the way of edible plant life out here. He’ll have to kill something. 

He doesn’t want to waste more arrows. He closes his eyes, and listens. There’s a stream not far off. Probably animals there. He goes.

Water runs off the mountain, cascading into a river made bigger by the recent disruption. The surface is craggy with fallen rock, and Atreus climbs over with caution. It’d be easy to slip and fall into the frigid waters. 

He can hear signs of life. He passes by a few deer, but they’re much too big for just him alone. He continues over the open land, the trees thinning out into bared white. A rabbit lingers at the edge of the clearing, and he hits it in one clean shot. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, picking it up by the ears. It’s still alive. One cut from his knife and it’s not anymore.

Atreus builds a fire. He skins the rabbit like Mother showed him, cooks the meat. Eats in silence. Though his belly is full and he feels warmer, he’s losing hope. He’s walked in a circle where Father went missing. There’s been no sign of him.

But he can’t stop. He kicks out the fire, and goes back the way he came. Maybe he missed something.

He spends two more days retracing his steps. Back and forth, to and from. He doesn’t want to give up hope, but he wishes someone was here to tell him what to do. 

He reaches the edge of the mountain, looks out on the Lake of Nine. He heads back the way he came.

* * *

He reaches the river when he spots it. Runes, drawn in blood on a rock. They weren’t there before.

Atreus freezes. Someone is here. He reaches for his bow. He reads.

It’s written like a child. Like someone who doesn’t know the language. Like someone he’s been trying to teach for months now.

His eyes drop to the water. He walks further downstream. He picks up speed as he sees more blood in the water, big handprints on the rock like someone trying desperately to hang on. He breaks into a run.

Atreus slides down the ravine, climbs his way down the cliff face to the basin. He’s moving so quickly he almost slips more than once. He lands in the snow in a crouch, then hurries down to the mouth of the river.

Floating facedown, Father. He flings his bow to the side and leaps into the shallow water, the cold stinging his skin. His teeth start chattering, the water is so cold, and he hooks his hands under Father’s arms and tugs him as hard as he can. Onto the shore.

Letting go, he looks down at his hands. They’re covered in blood. He turns Father onto his back, leans down to listen to his breath. He’s still breathing, but his skin’s ice cold.

A hand snaps up to take his wrist. Atreus jumps, but Father’s awake. Father’s awake and looking at him. 

“Atreus,” Father says. His voice is rough, wet.

“You’re okay,” Atreus says, frantically. He touches Father’s face, his chest. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

Father closes his eyes. His grip loosens. Atreus tries not to panic.

* * *

“Wake up.”

He tries to open his eyes. It’s too bright. He can’t. He feels Mother touch his forehead, and her nails are sharp on his skin.

“Atreus.” She sounds angry with him. He doesn’t understand. _”Wake up.”_

Her hands move him upright. He fights the wave of nausea as Mother pulls him to her breast. He’s been so sick lately he thinks he might be dying. Nothing seems to make him better. 

He thinks Mother is getting tired of taking care of him. She and Father have been arguing about him, he knows. She sent Father away when his sickness came back. 

“Come on. You’re burning up,” Mother says. She slips her hands under his armpits, starts to stand with him. He sags in her hands. “Atreus, you must move!”

Atreus coughs so hard he throws up. It’s bloody, down Mother’s front, on her shoulder. She doesn’t even seem to notice, but he feels embarrassed. His head his so heavy he has no choice but to rest it, the scent of vomit and blood strong in his nose.

She puts him on the floor, starts peeling him out of his soiled clothes. He’d wet himself in sleep at some point. His face burns with shame. She picks him up again and puts him in the wash basin, and the water is so cold his teeth start chattering.

He throws up again. It’s practically black, running down his chest, into the water. He starts crying. Mother holds him from behind, her hands in his sweaty hair, her fingers pouring water onto his heaving chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He chokes on bile, then coughs himself hoarse. 

“Never say you are sorry,” Mother whispers in his ear. “None of this is your fault.”

* * *

He drags Father into the husk of the reaver village to recover.

There’s a hut full of moldy old furs, straw for beds, a fire pit. A roof. He clears out the remainder of the bodies left within, then gets the fire going. He pulls Father’s armor off, and covers him in pelts. His skin is like ice.

Mother taught him about surviving the elements. Once he has the fire going, he pulls off his armor, strips naked. He slides into the makeshift bed with Father, blanketing himself over Father’s chest. Skin to skin. Father leeches body heat from him until he’s shaking.

The shaking stops. Father’s breathing grows easy beneath him. His heartbeat is steady.

Atreus exhales. He closes his eyes. Father’s skin smells like battle, there are black bruises running down the length of his torso. Huge puncture wounds, the shape of a mouth. Charred skin. He hasn’t healed well. Usually these wounds fade fast.

It’s worrying. He wonders how close he came to actually losing Father. How close he was to never being able to touch him again. His palms flatten out over Father’s chest, and he pulls himself up onto his elbows to look down at his face.

He looks peaceful, almost. He’s never seen his father’s face so relaxed, so free of tension. Atreus reaches to run his finger along the line of Father’s brow. 

He starts as Father opens his eyes. “Oh,” he murmurs. His hand slips down to Father’s cheek. “You’re awake.”

Father doesn’t say anything. But he looks proud.

Atreus bursts into tears. Father pulls him close, and he buries his face in his chest. 

He’s crying so hard he can’t speak. There’s so much he wants to say, but he can’t get the words to come out. He feels Father’s breath in his hair, his arms strong around him.

“You did well, Atreus,” Father says. 

The tears don’t stop coming. He feels like a child but Father does not chide him. He simply waits. His hand strokes over Atreus’s back, soothing him.

He has nothing left in him. The tears stop and give way to an almost trancelike state. He digs his fingers into Father’s chest, and he feels so small in his arms. He breathes, and his mind catches up.

“You remembered the runes,” he mumbles. He thought Father hadn’t been paying attention.

At first Atreus thinks his words go unheard. Then, Father rolls them over.

Atreus feels the air rush out of his chest as his back hits the ground, and Father is on top of him. He’s heavy. Warm between Atreus’s spread legs.

He feels the flush start at his chest, crawling up his neck to his face. Father is looking down at him with that same look that makes him feel embarrassed and _wanting_ all at once. 

“I remember everything you teach me,” Father says. His eyes are very serious.

Father leans down. Their noses touch. 

He already went three days and three nights without him. He can’t bring himself to be patient, and he reaches for Father, pulls himself up to kiss him on the mouth. His legs coil around Father’s waist like he’s trying to pull him into himself, and Father lets his full weight down. 

Father hasn’t touched him like this since last time. He’s kept his distance. Now, there aren’t any gaps between the places their skin touches. He wonders if Father’s been thinking about this, like he has, sleeping only an arm’s length away.

He strokes his hands over Father’s chest, like he’s making sure he’s really there. He can feel his heart beating under his palms. His muscle shifts under skin, his bones unbreakable. 

He can feel Father’s hardness against him, resting against his own between his legs. Father doesn’t seem hesitant, and maybe it’s because they’re alone out here in the emptiness. This delicate closeness is all that’s left.

“Father,” Atreus murmurs. 

He knows he sounds needy. Father chuckles. He drags his mouth down Atreus’s neck, his chest, and his beard is so rough. Atreus watches in a daze, and Father is definitely favouring his right side from the injuries. He’ll have to check that later, but the thought fades as Father moves lower and lower. His mouth is very wet.

They’ve never done this before. He gasps as Father takes him into his mouth. His shaking hands reach for Father’s head, the ink in his fingers black against stark white, blood red. His hips buck and Father holds him down.

Atreus closes his eyes. He tries not to get overwhelmed by the feeling, but Father’s hand slips beneath him. He tenses, it’s a little unnerving, but he trusts Father. What he’s doing feels so good, he doesn’t want it to stop.

Father stops. Atreus groans as he’s manhandled onto his front. He pushes up onto one hand, twisting to look at his father. He thinks Father might use him again, hold his thighs together. The thought excites him. 

But Father pulls his legs open. He just looks at him.

“Why are you stopping?” He arches his back. “Come on!”

The protests quickly vanish. Father’s mouth replaces his finger. His tongue strokes from the base of him to his tailbone, and it’s the strangest sensation he’s ever felt. Father’s tongue presses inward, and he tries to squirm away. Father holds him in place, hand moving between Atreus’s legs.

His toes curl, his neck craning back. He releases. Father doesn’t stop. It happens again. His body keeps trying and it starts to overwhelm him. Atreus’s eyes water and he’s practically delirious, begging Father to stop.

And Father does. He pats Atreus on the rear, signaling him to move. Atreus flops onto his back, sweaty despite the chill.

He looks up at Father’s face. He watches Father drag his thumb over his bottom lip. He looks very satisfied. His eyes drift down between Father’s legs, where he’s unfulfilled. 

Atreus reaches for him. Father takes his wrist, and pulls him closer.

A thrill runs through him. Father has never allowed him to touch. He starts moving his hand, and Father keeps his grip on his wrist. 

“Firmer,” Father says. 

He tightens his hand. He does what feels good on himself. Father’s so much bigger than him, and it’s a different angle, but he’s a quick learner. 

Atreus glances at Father’s face. He’s got his chin to his chest, his teeth grit. He’s staring at Atreus’s hand around him, fixated. He wants to do more for Father, so he gets up to his elbows, opens his mouth.

Father nudges him back. “No.”

It’s demoralizing. Still, Atreus moves his hand, brings his opposite to use. “But don’t you want me to?” he asks, in a small voice. He doesn’t understand. Father used his mouth and it felt amazing.

Father’s hand squeezes his wrist. He closes his eyes. “Yes.”

He still doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t stop moving. He can feel Father start to tense, and it still takes him off guard when it happens. 

It’s so much more than him. It catches him on the chest, a little on the chin, and he lets go of Father to wipe it off with the heel of his hand. Father’s much bigger hands replace his own, milking the last of it out of him. 

They clean up. Father puts more wood on the fire, Atreus checks his wounds.

“Your dragon was not very friendly,” Father gives as an explanation.

“I should’ve listened to you,” Atreus murmurs. 

Father does not tell him otherwise. 

Atreus looks at him, smoothing out bandages with his palms. Father touches his cheek.

* * *

In the morning, they leave. The mountain pass has been buried with snow. They take another route, the long way around the other side of the mountain. Sindri turns up in an alcove and Father repairs armor, Atreus loads his quiver with more arrows. They’ve more or less recovered from the three days they spent separated. Physically, at least.

He cranes his head to gaze up at the mountain as they push onward. Father catches him looking back. He stops. 

“The dragon's still out there, right?” Atreus asks. "It's still alive?"

Father is quiet for a moment. Then, he says, “I only wounded it. It was more important to find you.”

Atreus looks up at the mountain once more. “Let's kill it.”

“I thought you wished it set free.”

“Before, I did,” Atreus says.

Father hums in thought. His brows draw together, and his face goes serious.

“We should return home,” Father says. 

“Why?” 

“The head will be missing you.” 

“Since when do you care about what he wants?”

“We have been gone too long.”

Atreus rolls his eyes. Father is making excuses, for some reason. He starts walking backward. He makes it a few steps in the snow, but Father has not moved.

“Come on!” Atreus urges. “Don’t you wanna fight it?”

Father doesn’t answer him.

“What if it comes looking for us? Shouldn’t we make the first move?”

“Vengeance will not rid you of your fear, boy,” Father says. “You cannot wash it away with blood.”

The breath rushes out of Atreus’s chest. He hides his eyes. 

“That’s not it,” he says. 

His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists at his side to make them stop.

“Then what is it?” 

“I could use the practice,” he claims. He smiles up at Father, but it fades quickly. “Right?”

Father looks at him. His expression is guarded, hard to read.

“You know I'm right,” Atreus insists.

A moment. Then, Father nods. Slightly. His axe slips into his palm, the sharp edge glinting in the light of morning.

Atreus starts ahead, and Father keeps pace.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s night when he realizes. They’ve been so busy with hunting, training, that he hasn’t journaled in a fortnight. Father’s been running him ragged, and he’s always so tired at the end of it he just falls asleep. Atreus flips the book open, tracing his finger down the textured paper by the light of the fire when his breath stops in his chest.

He missed it. By two days, he missed it. A whole winter passed without Mother.

Anger fills him. He looks at the page, at the date. He can’t believe he forgot. He’s been so busy with Father sometimes he can go hours, almost the whole day without thinking of her.

He remembers when she used to live at the core of his subconscious. Every word, everything she’d ever told him right there at the forefront of his mind. He doesn’t want to forget about her. He can’t imagine living without hearing her words in his head, her touch on his shoulder. He wishes he could see her again. He closes his eyes, listens on the night wind for her voice, but she doesn’t speak.

At dawn they head into the garden. Mimir stays behind at home. Father seems to sense something in him. They spar all day, and it helps. As the sun sets, he can’t pretend anymore. His heart isn’t in it. 

“Atreus,” Father says. 

Atreus picks himself up out of the dirt. His palms are bleeding. He wipes them off on his pelt, keeping his eyes down.

Father approaches. He pulls at Atreus’s arm, forcing him to look up. “You are unfocused.”

He jerks his arm out of Father’s grip. The action seems to startle him. Still, it’s Father’s fault. He never said anything either. For all he knows, Father has forgotten about Mother entirely. He doesn’t speak of her. Worse, still, Atreus wonders if Father has replaced her. If it’s his own fault for trying to fill her role.

Father crouches before him. Atreus averts his eyes, his jaw clenched.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Atreus mumbles.

“Do you know the story of your birth?” Father says. He reaches for Atreus’s face, turning it in his hands.

Atreus looks at his father. He’s still angry, but his heart aches. Mother never told him either.

“No. Tell me.” 

Father’s hands move to his shoulders, squeeze reassuringly.

“You were born,” Father says.

He laughs. “What? That’s not a story.”

“You asked what happened.”

“Tell me the real story,” Atreus urges.

Father pauses. He searches for the words.

“It was unexpected. You were not due for another moon, at least,” Father says. 

Atreus goes quiet. He listens.

“She did not tell me you were coming until you were already halfway out.”

His eyes go wide. “It was that fast?”

“You were headstrong as ever,” Father says, with a chuckle. “Once you’d made up your mind there was no stopping you. And your mother— she did not need my help. She reached down and pulled you out herself.”

His eyes water. “Really? She did that?” 

Father nods, then continues.

“You were very small in her arms. Bloody. You tore her up from the inside.” Father’s eyes go distant. He’s caught in that memory of her, Atreus can see it in his eyes. “You did not cry. I thought there was something wrong with you, but no.” 

His fingers tousle through Atreus’s shock of red hair. Atreus bites his lip.

“She did not care that she was dying. She put you to her breast and from then on, she did not let you go.”

He feels the first tear fall. He sniffs, going to wipe it away. Father gets there first, brushing it off his cheek with his knuckle.

“I did not hold you even once until a whole winter had passed,” Father says. 

Atreus’s face creases in hurt. “You didn’t?” 

“Your mother would not allow it.” His voice softens. “And I... was afraid.”

“You? Afraid?”

Father nods. He doesn’t elaborate. Atreus can’t imagine him being afraid of anything.

Atreus takes a step forward, then throws his arms around Father’s shoulders. He pushes his face into his father’s neck, and holds on tight. Father’s arms come to gather him in.

“You knew what day it was,” Atreus says. “Why didn’t you tell me it had already been that long since she died?” 

“I did not want to upset you,” Father says. “I thought keeping you busy was the solution. I was wrong.”

He digs his fingers into Father’s shoulders. “I don’t want to forget her.” 

“You won’t.”

He grips Atreus’s shoulder, pushes him back at a distance. His fingers settle at Atreus’s breastbone, pressing inward. 

“She is here, Atreus.” 

Atreus takes his father’s hand, flattens it against his chest. His palm is warm, his touch calming. It’s like he can feel her spirit between the gaps of his father’s fingers. The place where her soul resides.

“Can we do something for her?” Atreus asks. “To let her know we’re thinking of her?”

Father nods. He stands. They turn back towards home, at an unhurried pace.

Atreus frowns. He looks up. 

“Was that actually true?”

“Was what?” Father asks.

“Did she really—” Atreus squats and gestures pulling out something between his legs, makes a wet sound with his mouth, “—just like that?”

Father chuckles. “Yes.”

“Whoa.”

Atreus tries to picture it. He shakes his head.

He thinks, then, that maybe Mother was stronger than either of them.

* * *

They build a bonfire. The biggest one Midgard has ever seen. Atreus insists on it, and Father doesn’t say no. Smoke rises towards the sky in massive plumes, billowing out into the open air. The fire bleeds heat, warm enough that Atreus is sweating under his clothes.

He brings Mimir out from the house, holding him facing outward against his chest. “Aye, lad, that’s quite the blaze! Not too close, now.”

“Do you think she can see it from Valhalla?” 

“I don’t rightly think there’s any way she couldn’t,” Mimir murmurs. 

Father comes to stand beside them. He is quiet. His hand settles between Atreus’s shoulders, then moves up to the back of his neck. 

He hopes Mother can see them here together, like this. He hopes she knows they’re okay.

They stay together outside like that. The moon rises high into the sky, visible through the smoke. They sit on a tree father felled and eat winter berries and smoked meat, Mimir speaking stories of the Gods. Atreus laughs more than he probably should. But it’s better than being sad. 

His eyes are heavy by the time the fire finally starts to die down. Atreus leans against Father’s strong side, Mimir pillowed in his lap.

Father nudges him. “You are tired.”

“No, I’m fine,” Atreus mumbles. He blinks back sleep, but starts to fade. “I don’t want to go to sleep yet.”

Atreus drifts. He’s only halfway aware when Father picks him up, elbows under his neck and knees. Mimir stays cradled in his lap as Father walks. He rests his head on Father’s shoulder.

“I think I’ll stay out here.” It’s Mimir. He’s speaking low, like he’s trying not to wake him. “Keep watch. That fire is bound to attract someone or other.”

“Are you certain?” Father asks.

“Thought you might want a bit of privacy with your son.” The warmth fades out of his voice.

Father doesn’t answer.

“Set me down in a little cranny, I’ll be fine. Something’s wrong and I’ll holler.”

Father shifts him into one arm, picking Mimir up with the other. Atreus pretends to sleep, feeling rather than watching.

Bending at the waist, Father puts Mimir down. He shifts Atreus in his hold, then resumes walking.

“And Brother,” Mimir murmurs. His voice is soft. Threatening. “Remember what I said.”

Father’s fingers grip tighter around him. He moves through the door, and Atreus hears it shut behind him. 

He doesn’t make a move, not wanting Father to become aware that he’s been half-awake the whole time. Besides, he likes being held. He feels safest in Father’s arms, or on his back. With him.

He wishes he knew what Mimir was talking about. He's been acting strange lately. All wonderings are wiped from his mind as he’s set down in a bed that’s not his own. The bed creaks as Father sits down beside him. Atreus’s breath catches as Father starts to undress him.

He lays there, naked. His breathing picks up. He feels Father’s fingers against his breastbone and he opens his eyes, reaching up to grab for his hand. Stopping him.

“Father,” he starts. He doesn’t know what to say. Guilt creeps in. 

His father searches his eyes. “What is it?” 

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes. Every day.”

“Does it ever get easier?” Atreus asks, in a very small voice.

Father closes and opens his eyes. His nostrils flare. He looks down to where Atreus is holding onto his hand.

“No,” Father says. “But you learn to live with it.”

Atreus goes quiet. He nods. He’d thought that bringing Mother to the mountain would help him let go, but laying there, in his parent’s bed, it’s like finding her body all over again. 

Father undresses. He blows out the last candle, then slips into bed. 

The night is quiet. Father smells like smoke and ash. His arms are heavy as they pull him close, and Father holds him like a child until long after morning.

* * *

He’s running so hard his lungs burn. He darts down a ravine, his feet spilling over the ledge, his hand shooting out to catch himself. He’s gotten better at climbing but his hands are scabbed from firing arrows, his arms stiff with overuse.

Father told him to run and so he has been running. 

The training has gotten more difficult since the night of the bonfire. Punishing. Some days he’s so sore he can hardly get up, but he doesn’t want to disappoint Father.

He drops down to the next ledge, trying to hide himself in the ravine. He used to play this game with Mother, as a child. Hide and seek in her garden. He doesn’t know what Father will do if he finds him.

Atreus finds his footing, careful not to look over the edge. It’s a long way down. He listens, but he can’t hear Father. He’d been close before. Maybe he’s finally lost him.

He makes it to flat ground, ankle deep snow, and Atreus reaches for his bow. There’s not much cover out here. He is vulnerable. 

Atreus draws a breath. He starts forward. He makes it one step before something hits him with the force of a landslide, sending him flying through the air. He twists as he soars, firing arrows to where Father is already advancing on him. Father knocks them away, easily.

Landing on his feet, he takes off towards the treeline. He needs cover. He’s forced to switch paths, Father cutting him off, and he’s startled when the axe flies his way. It’s so close he thinks Father was actually trying to hit him.

Another direction. The air is dead silent, until he hears the clang of chains behind him. Father’s never used the blades while they’ve trained, before. He switches tactics, pivoting on his heel, and running straight towards Father.

The switch startles Father, and he draws back his arm, but Atreus leaps into the air and bounds off his shoulder. Father’s slower to turn, and he almost makes it into the treeline when a spasm runs through his leg. 

Something’s around his ankle. Father’s chains. He hits the ground hard, his arms out to catch himself. He starts crawling, trying to free his leg. 

The chains move, hook under his neck. Father lifts him like this, and Atreus chokes as he’s pulled tight to Father’s back, the chain digging into his neck. He kicks his legs, tries to get his hand underneath the point of pressure, but Father is pulling so hard his vision is darkening around the edges. 

He reaches for his knife, strikes back. He stabs into his arm, but Father doesn’t let go. He could slash, but the closest thing in reach is his throat. He can’t do that.

He thinks Father might be trying to kill him.

Father has hurt him when they’ve trained before, but not like this. He struggles. He can’t breathe.

“You’re hurting me,” he chokes. He drops the knife.

Father does not stop.

“Father,” he pleads. His vision darkens.

The chains dig into his neck. There’s blood on his hands.

“Father— Father, _stop!”_

He is dropped in an instant. He hits the ground, crumples over like a broken doll. Atreus pants, holding his throat. He turns his face up to look at his Father, and is startled by what he sees there.

It looks like something else wearing Father’s skin. There is no warmth in his eyes. There is no sign of recognition there. 

He doesn’t understand. Father is supposed to protect him.

“Why did you do that?” Atreus says. The hurt he feels, the betrayal, comes through in his voice.

Father doesn’t answer him.

“Why did you do that?” he repeats. Atreus sucks in another breath. He can barely hold himself up.

“You mustn’t hold back!” Father shouts. “You must survive, no matter the cost!”

Save for the sound of his own ragged breathing, it is silent. 

“Go home.”

Atreus looks up. “What?”

“Return home,” Father says. He stays at a distance. He stays away. “Now.”

“Without you?” Atreus asks.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, Father takes his axe, and disappears into the trees. 

It hurts. Atreus doesn’t understand. Still, he obeys his Father, gathering his bow and knife, then walking slowly back towards home. Mimir asks of Father but Atreus can’t even bring himself to speak. He shuts the head away because he can’t stand to see those eyes that seem to know so much more than he does. Nobody tells him anything.

Father does not return until nightfall.

* * *

He is awoken by a gentle shake to the shoulder. Atreus yawns, pulling himself up onto his hand. “Father?”

He can make out Father’s face in the moonlight trickling in through the cracks in the roof. Atreus rubs his eyes, sits up fully. Father’s hands grip his arms.

“What is it?” Atreus asks. “What’s wrong?”

Father doesn’t say anything. He pulls Atreus into his arms, and holds him so tight it hurts. He drops his head into the curve of Atreus’s bare shoulder, his breath wafting hot against his skin.

Atreus lets his hands fall to the back of Father’s neck. He kisses his cheek. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I know you’re just trying to make me stronger.”

Father raises his head. He cards his fingers through Atreus’s hair, looks at him like something precious. 

“I wish you did not have to be,” Father murmurs.

He doesn’t understand. He knows Father is hurting. He feels it in himself. Atreus leans forward and kisses him. He just wants to make it go away.

Naked beneath the furs, he pushes them back, sliding onto Father’s lap. Father is undressed, his thighs strong beneath him, his hands settling around Atreus’s waist. 

For awhile, they simply hold onto one another. Atreus knows that this is all they have left in this world. Something is coming that will test these bonds. He can feel it in dreams, in the way Father pushes him further and further each day. But there is time. For now. 

Atreus lets his hand slip lower. He reaches for Father, finding him soft in his palm. He begins moving, looking at Father’s face, searching for his reaction. Father’s eyes close in concentration, and his fingers grip tighter around Atreus’s sides. 

He nudges Father’s shoulder, and Father eases down onto his back. Bracing himself with one hand on his father’s chest, he continues his movements with the other. Father doesn’t usually let him touch so openly like this. He wonders what’s changed.

“Do you like it?” he asks. He’s getting braver.

Father squeezes his hip. “Yes.”

“Can I use my mouth? Like you did?”

“Boy,” Father says, in warning.

He moves down, and Father doesn’t stop him. He’s so much bigger, Atreus doesn’t think it will fit. Still, he opens his mouth, uses his tongue, at first. It tastes strange, but not bad. 

He gets his lips around it, moves his head the way Father did. His face feels hot, and he’s self-conscious. He wants to get it right the first time. He uses his hand to cover what his mouth can’t, closes his eyes and concentrates. 

Father stops him. He almost whines because he wants to do better, but Father holds him down to the bed and kisses him. Father’s hand reaches between his legs, and Atreus gasps. He craves the touch but he doesn’t want it to be like this. He wants more.

“Father,” he murmurs. Father pulls back to look at him. “What you used to do with Mother… could we do that together?”

Father doesn’t answer him.

“I know I’m not Mother.” He holds his Father’s gaze. “I don’t want to replace her.”

“You are very young, Atreus,” Father reminds him. 

“I can take it,” Atreus insists. “I wanna try, at least.”

“It is not the same as with a woman.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m a boy, duh.” Atreus says. “But I liked it when you used your mouth there.”

Father still seems hesitant. Atreus squirms beneath him, drawing his knees up and letting Father’s weight rest between his parted legs. 

“It’s okay, Father,” he says. “I want you to.”

Mother had told him once, a long time ago, that this was an act of love. He doesn’t think he can say it to Father. He’s good with words, with language, but saying it doesn’t feel like enough.

There’s a salve made from herbs near the bedside. Father opens the jar and slicks his fingers. Atreus watches his hand move beneath them, and sucks a breath in when he feels the first touch of it to him. 

Father presses inside. It’s a strange feeling. Invasive. He reaches for Father, draws him down for a kiss as Father continues. His fingers are very big. It doesn’t hurt, not now at least, but he does start to feel nervous.

A second finger. It’s a strange type of pressure. Father bites at his lower lip, and he’s moving against him. He thinks maybe Father is getting impatient. He doesn’t want to make him wait too long.

“Atreus,” Father says. He presses a kiss to the side of his mouth. “You’re tensing. Relax.” 

He nods. Father slips his fingers out, uses more of the salve. Atreus’s face starts to feel hot, and the sound of his fingers wet and moving is a little gross. 

It feels like it goes on forever. He knows Father is making sure he’s ready for it. He’s almost getting sleepy again by the time Father pulls his fingers out. 

“You won’t be able to take it all,” Father says. He uses more salve on himself. “You must let me control this. Stay still.”

Atreus nods. He breathes out through his nose as Father adjusts him, pulling his legs open, tilting him until he’s resting on his lower back.

He can feel the pressure of something larger against him. He wills himself to relax. Atreus looks downward, to where Father is pressing inward. 

It hurts. Atreus tenses. He’s had worse pain. Father’s hand squeezes his inner thigh, and he starts moving. Slow. Atreus lets his head drop, his hands over his head. His chest and face feel sweaty. Father keeps going.

“Ow,” he mumbles. 

“Breathe,” Father says. 

Father’s hand shifts to take him in hand. It helps distract him. He closes his eyes.

It gets better. He knows Father is restraining himself. He's not in very far. He feels so tense, his grip so sharp on his leg. He presses in further, and Atreus moans. 

“You like this,” Father says. 

“Yeah— it’s starting to feel good.”

Father adjusts his hold. Atreus moves his hand down between his legs, and Father lets go of him to grasp both of his thighs. He pulls him closer, folding him so that he can lean down to kiss him. 

He wishes he was bigger. He wishes Father didn’t have to hold back. He wishes Mother had lived to see them so close. He wishes so badly that she was here.

Father’s beard is rough under his fingers. He’s heavy and sweating above him, but his mouth is very gentle. He can feel Father shaking with the effort of not pushing in further. Father knows this will break him.

The feeling washes over him in a wave. He hangs onto Father’s shoulders, his toes curling. He can hear Father talking to him, but the words don’t make sense. He starts to relax, though his father keeps moving within him.

It’s starting to grow painful. Atreus grits his teeth, he isn’t going to tell Father to stop. He can feel his father’s muscles tensing, his movements more jagged. He pushes in deeper, and Atreus slaps his hand over his mouth to quiet himself from yelling as Father grunts with his release. No matter the pain, he’s elated. Father made that sound because of _him._

Father lays over him in the aftermath. He pulls back, leaving Atreus’s body. He feels empty and sore. His nose wrinkles as fluid slips out of him. Father rolls off to his side, and Atreus squirms closer.

“She lied to me,” Atreus says. 

Father is silent for a moment. 

“What do you mean?”

“When I asked her if this hurt. It kinda did.”

Father stares at him. “You asked your mother… if this hurt?”

“Yeah, before I knew what it was. I saw you guys.” Atreus laughs. “But she told me you weren’t hurting her. She lied to me.”

Father is quiet.

“But I guess that means I need more practice,” Atreus says. He presses his face against Father’s chest, and closes his eyes.

* * *

He’s alone with Mimir in the garden. Not much grows here anymore, not since winter started and never stops, but he’s scavenging. Father is out gathering firewood. 

“Little Brother,” Mimir says.

Atreus looks down where he’s placed the head on a tree stump. He wipes the dirt off his hands. “What is it, Mimir?”

“Do you like it? Living out here alone with your da’.”

He shrugs. That’s a weird question. He’s never lived anywhere else.

“Are you ever scared?” Mimir asks.

“Yeah, all the time,” Atreus says. “We fight gods and monsters, sometimes it’s scary.”

“Of _him,_ I meant.”

Atreus goes quiet. 

“You’re strong, Little Brother. You could fend for yourself, now, I reckon. And you could take me with you! I know a fair bit about the realms.”

Atreus frowns. “You’re weird, Mimir.”

He turns back to the garden. He’s confused and angry at once. He goes back to Mimir and knocks him off the stump into the snow, watching him roll over onto his face.

Then he feels bad. He goes and picks him up, dusting the snow off. Mimir looks very sad, but he doesn’t speak.

“There’s nowhere I could go that he wouldn't find me,” Atreus says, calmly. “And I’m not gonna leave him alone. He’s my dad.”

“I know, son,” Mimir says. “I know.”

* * *

Mother is dying. He knows she’s dying. She doesn’t get out of bed anymore. Soon, he will be alone.

She calls for him one morning, and Atreus comes to her. He gets on his knees beside her bed, reaching for her.

He wants her to hold him, but she doesn’t. Instead, Mother sits up. She grabs his chin, turning his face in her hands. He looks up at her with adoration.

“You are still so small,” Mother says. “I thought I would have more time.”

“But I’m strong,” Atreus says. “You’ve taught me so much.”

He wishes she could teach him more. He wishes she wasn’t dying.

“You will be strong. One day.” She smiles at him. 

Tears fill his eyes. He tries to contain them. 

“My knife,” she says. “Give it to me.”

He’s been holding onto it for her. He pulls it out from his pelt, presenting it to her. She holds his face in her hands.

“You look too young,” she says. “Too delicate. He won't take you.” 

“Mother,” he murmurs. He is afraid.

“Your father,” Mother says, “You must obey him, Atreus. Stay with him. He will keep you safe.”

“I don’t want to.”

She puts the knife to his cheek. He winces as the blade breaks his flesh. He doesn’t move. 

Mother smiles at him. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [About that ending.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxYYgL5joRw&feature=youtu.be&t=3m14s)


End file.
